If Smoke

If smoke could fill a room the way you do, 
No one would be able to see their own hand 
waving to you; unnatural, big, excited gestures calling your name.

If smoke could tickle my throat the way you do,
I would replace my skin with unfeeling steel,
smooth and shiny, 
just so that I could continue to swallow the words I don't tell you.

If smoke could hold my hand the way you do,
secretly, stealthy, convinced no one is watching,
stroking each finger excitedly
I would hold my hands in my pockets, as if exposing them in the air 
would feel the same as exposing everything to you, 
in the public place of your bedroom.

If smoke could sit in my mouth and swallow my words the way you do,
tasting each one before it stumbles from between my lips,
I would bury my face in my scarf and tell you
'I don't want to get you sick', or 'I have a headache' or, 'I really should get to bed.'

If smoke could look at me the way you do, 
I would giggle every time I walked past a smoker, a fire, a burning house, a lit match.
Giddy with uncertainty and how attractive you are. 

If smoke was you, I'd have to quit smoking,
because all those times I casually bummed one,
I would never-
-and have never-
fully inhaled.